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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, tailored appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in politics, image is not neutral.